


Unexpected

by okbutjusthisonce



Series: RFU [26]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, BAMF John, Birth, M/M, Mpreg, Omega John, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 11:37:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3894922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okbutjusthisonce/pseuds/okbutjusthisonce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is sure the night will be a success.</p><p>(another episode from the past)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unexpected

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonwings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonwings/gifts).



> I'm gonna call this a fill for moonwings, even tho it's (as usual) not exactly filling the prompt.  
> But it's similar in theme and they did make me finish writing it, lol.
> 
> _Can you do one where heavily pregnant John takes down an Alpha that won't take 'No' for an answer or a criminal/killer Sherlock is chasing? Just a BAMF pregnant John request please!!_
> 
> Thanks moonwings!  
> 

 

“I really need to get back to the gym.” John complains as he wriggles into his tux, "This thing barely fits.” He looks down in dismay at his still-distended belly.

“You just had twins. Again. Not an easy thing to get out from under.” Says Sherlock. He marvels at how stubborn John is, at how quickly he's snapped back to his action-man self. _So very atypical for an omega_ , Sherlock thinks happily. He lets his eyes linger over John's plump figure, then turns around from adjusting his tie in the mirror. “I like you this way too.” he croons, giving John’s chubby side a gentle pinch. Along with the extra weight, the remnants of pregnant-omega-scent still lingers, faintly. It really hasn't been so long. Sherlock pushes his nose just by John's ear and inhales. They stand there a moment, Sherlock letting the scent ignite his brain a little.

“Sit ups are needed just the same.” John says grumpily.

 

+++

 

The opera that night is one of Sherlock's favourites.

The sitter is on time, a very reliable young omega called Crystal.

Their seats are excellent.

The suspect will be sitting right in their line of sight.

Sherlock is sure the night will be a success.

 

When the lights go down, Sherlock can see John furrowing his brow a little.

"What's wrong?" He asks quietly- although he has his theories, of course - the question is an experiment; John's idea - that they practise certain conversation patterns that might help with better parenting.

"Nothing, I'm just..." John shakes his head, waves Sherlock's question away. He seems to have forgotten his own suggestion.

Sherlock peers at John in the dark. It's obvious he's physically uncomfortable. The tux _is_ tight. And Sherlock is sure John is still sore from recent events, only won't admit to it. But it's more than those things. Omegas tend to get anxious when separated from their newborns. John is atypical, but his biology can't be helping. He tends to harbour anxieties as it is (he's alway far too worried about the contents of Sherlock's lab, for example), and he's in a time of hormonal flux.

"I'm fine," says John.

Sherlock decides John will be fine... soon. The discomfort is manageable, John will act on it if that changes. The anxiety will pass with the evening's events. Sherlock settles back. He slides his fingers between John's own, feeling happy. John squeezes his hand gently, sending a little electric charge through Sherlock.

 _Mine_ , he feels, more than thinks.

The orchestra begins.

It's not until Glauce's gifts are delivered that their target stands up, her pale skin and white gown glowing in the dark of the theatre. _She's meant to be pissed, but isn't even close. English, a swimmer. She owns a little dog, a terrier. Most importantly, she's carrying a thick envelope in her clutch purse._ Her neighbours move, irritated and overly polite about it.

Sherlock looks over to John, who's turned his head simultaneously to look at Sherlock. They need not speak. Instead he and John give each other subtle expressions, exchange the smallest of gestures. Their plans have always been forged on the fly, but by now they've worked so many cases that their skills are refined; they improvise and execute, play through beautiful jazz action sequences together. John gets up and leaves after exactly one minute. _Perfect. Perfect._ _Mine_. Sherlock's heart swells with pride and love.

He's climbing up to the catwalk himself only two minutes later, where the exchange will take place. Sure enough, a man waits there; he might be mistaken for crew by an average, dull, person. Sherlock knows better. The man's clothing, his demeanor, his hands, tell a different story. _He's a hired mercenary, and rather dangerous. Ukranian. He's got a thing for cocaine and breaking fingers._

To add to it all he's nearly a head taller than Sherlock, and a good deal wider. _Mangoes are his favourite fruit._

The two look at each other. Sherlock pulls a thick envelope out from his side pocket. The man, a phone. He punches a complex sequence of numbers in, and turns the screen towards Sherlock for his inspection.

With a curt nod, the two items are swapped, slid quickly across the catwalk floor. Below them Glauce preens, then screams.

The phone is in his hand.

"Well done, Mr Holmes." Says a female voice behind him. Sherlock turns to see a dark skinned woman in red, her face beautiful and familiar. She was in the box next to them, watching. _English, a swimmer._ They have been fooled, and the woman who John's got tied up by now is a decoy. _An aquantence from the pool, perhaps hired, definitely duped._

"Now kill him," the woman says.

Sherlock is ready, but The Ukrainian still moves faster than his appearance suggests. He flies at Sherlock silently, ready to crush. Sherlock is quick, mostly evading, occasionally landing a blow to the man's face. His opponent is largely impervious and continues charging like a rhino. Glauce and her father do their twisted dance. When it finally comes, the blow to Sherlock's solar plexus knocks the wind out of him. The phone flies into space.

He is on the floor, The Ukrainian's giant hands around his throat. He's vaguely aware of the woman standing behind him, calmly watching. He's lightheaded, long enough that he thinks he might just die on the catwalk, watching the twisted bodies of father and daughter beneath him die too.

"Oi!"

The sound of something hard meeting flesh follows, and a wave of involuntary euphoria comes over Sherlock. The Ukrainian grunts in surprise and pain, clumsily pulls himself up.

John. With a fire extinguisher and the mad-dog look he gets in his eyes when he's defending Sherlock. Sherlock hasn't seen it in some time, but then, having four children has changed their lives significantly. This new, omega-ish version seems especially volatile. John's scent is potent, adrenaline and hormones mixed together making Sherlock giddy.

The size difference between the two seems laughable, yet it's John who has the upper hand. He moves rapidly, dodging, then wields the extinguisher with determination, battering The Ukrainian with it again and again. Moving him away from Sherlock. The two travel quickly down the long catwalk towards the opposite end.

Sherlock jumps to his feet, intending to aid his omega, but not before John has managed to turn the hose onto his opponent, blinding him with its discharge. It gives John the spare moment he needs to land a solid blow to the man's head.

The Ukrainian goes down with a groan.

Madeas' children are dead.

John sinks to his knees, breathing hard, exhausted from the brawl.

The woman in red turns and flees.

Sherlock spins on his heel to pursue.

"Don't... let her get away..." John gasps. He's curled over, holding his stomach. Something in Sherlock's brain clicks. For the first time that night, Sherlock suspects he's actually been slow and out of touch, realises how sentimental and subtlety doped up he's felt all evening.

_MineMineMineMine..._

He instinctively stops and turns back, leaving Medea to her chariot.

"John!"

“Go... It’s - I’m ok... I'm...Unh..."

His omega is on the floor, struggling. He's dropped to his hands and knees,  is undulating and groaning. Perhaps, Sherlock thinks, John hasn't lost quite enough weight after all, perhaps his hormones are still a little too strong...

“John?” He asks stupidly.

"Mmmm..."

 

It isn't the stress of the fight.

 

"John!"

"Hhhhhhhhhhnn..."

John has moved onto his back, is struggling to take his trousers off, huffing and crying out. His crotch is wet, the taut fabric between his legs forming a bulge. Growing and straining quickly, it threatens to split open.

Sherlock scrambles over the unconscious mercenary.

By the time he gets to John, what's happening is more than obvious; it's nearly over. He takes in John's splayed legs, trousers now around his ankles, the bulge in his pants becoming larger by the moment. Sherlock pulls John's pants aside. John's flesh is stretching rapidly, a head is coming out of him. He arches his back, moaning, lost in pleasure and pain as his body continues to open. Sherlock gently grabs John's erection, sending new waves of bliss through his omega.

"Push!" He commands - just as the head pops out and immediately begins to twist. It's happening so very quickly.

John's eyes roll backwards in pain, slide shut in ecstasy.

The shoulders emerge, turn, and with a sudden shout from John, there is a baby bursting from between his shaking thighs.

The audience below breaks into applause as Sherlock's fifth, unexpected child cries out above them.

 

+++

 

"They'll never let us live this down at The Yard," says John. He's got Yet Unnamed Baby Girl Holmes-Watson bundled up and settled down nicely. The two look comfortable enough in the hospital bed, but still Sherlock wants to get home. He snorts dismissively.

"I'm sure we'll manage to do something else to blow their tiny minds soon enough," he says.

"I dunno, Sherlock, this one seems hard to top. Having a baby in the middle of a pursuit, out of the blue-"

"It wasn't, either. With the tiniest bit of observation, anyone could have worked out you were still carrying," Sherlock says arrogantly, "including you, especially you,"

John twists his mouth.

"I barely had a break between the first pregnancy and the second, no thanks to _you_. Forgot what it was like to not be knocked up, " he says, "besides... you missed it somehow too, didn't you, you big alpha bastard," 

"Hormones. They were especially strong this time round, and now we know why. I haven't been myself, never properly 'came down' from my alpha," says Sherlock defensively.

John's scent has truly subsided now. Sherlock knows he's far more clear headed than before.

John is about to protest when Doctor Banerjee comes in, test results in hand.

"Alright, boys. Now. Everything is fine with your baby. She's healthy, though we should obviously continue to monitor her," she says.

"Obviously," rumbles Sherlock.

"That's wonderful news, thank you," says John.

"Let's go," Sherlock adds impatiently. He can, after all, run all these tests himself.

Doctor Banerjee holds her hand up. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"As for you two," she says, "a word of advice,"

"Okay..." says John amicably.

"It's not uncommon for omegas to deliver with a delay between babies, although this was a little longer than usual, and delays usually happen when carrying what we consider a litter - four or more,"

"Yeah, sure, I understand," John says.

"In this case we missed that you were carrying triplets, but there's another implication here,"

"Besides the hospital staff being incompetent morons?" Asks Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" John scolds.

Doctor Banerjee doesn't blink. Instead she passes the lab report to John.

"Your fertility levels are running quite high," she says, "in fact, both of you are exhibiting some extremes in your endocrine systems. It would probably be good to give your bodies a break. You're a doctor, you know the potential outcomes of not doing so,"

John looks down lovingly at their new daughter, then up at Sherlock and smiles, his eyes large and soft.

_Mine._

It is so faint this time, Sherlock barely feels it. But it's there.

_Mine._

He smiles back at his omega.

_Mine._

"Five babies in two years," John says, "yeah, believe me, we're done,"

 _Mine_...

 

**Author's Note:**

> sure, John, sure...


End file.
